control of rage and desire,
coughing out, spewing
remnants of the past
like some volcano
intent on making
another Pompeii.
the real eludes
because it is control,
like taking the
writhing, twisting,
vehement hose,
out of control,
into your hand.
lacking control,
I lack desire,
and more, lack rage:
am myself still—
myself, out of reach in the mirror
which is distance.
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